


Positively Petrified Plants

by tenshi13



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 10:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19743634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenshi13/pseuds/tenshi13
Summary: Aziraphale discovers the truth about what Crowley really does with those plants he finds lacking.





	Positively Petrified Plants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anri/gifts).



Aziraphale has been fretting about Crowley’s houseplants ever since he became obsessed with those out of date gardening magazines they kept at the dentist. Neither demons nor angels have any need for check-ups but Crowley had been called in to traumatise some children. Instead he heckled the people on reception and, apparently, read all nine volumes of _Picking Pansies with Pam – An ultimate gardening guide._ This is where he’d grossly misread the advice that plants responded encouragingly to “enthusiastic vocalisations” to mean “traumatise the greenery”. 

And Aziraphale was worried about the plants, okay? God had created all life on Earth, and while plants weren’t quite on the same level as human beings that didn’t mean he wanted them psychologically scarred or anything. He wasn’t a _monster_. You certainly just can’t go around killing them for having a tiny spec of yellow on their leaves. If people treated books with the same callousness he’d have a rather diminished collection. (Aziraphale failed to realise that books were the wrong analogy. If he’d used customers instead, he’d have been much more able to understand Crowley’s actions).

Regardless, the point is Aziraphale kind of goes through Crowley’s rubbish. Not in a weird way! It would just soothe his heart to know that he wasn’t casually committing multiple herbicide. Which he wasn’t. So that’s that then.

But he still wonders what does happen to those plants that mysteriously go missing. Maybe he should ask Crowley to give them to him? The windows of his bookshop are a bit dusty, so he’s not sure how much light they’d get, but they’d certainly liven the place up a bit. He was just thinking the windowsills were kind of bare. Deciding he’d hit upon a good idea, he felt the need to act upon it immediately, so he grabbed his coat from the peg and closed up the shop. Or at least, he turned the little sign to read “closed”.

Outside the world of his bookshop, the weather was battling itself: summer days versus winter blues. Unfortunately, both sides were losing. It was boiling, but also drizzling that sort of fine rain that gets absolutely everywhere. Aziraphale was both mentally and physically untouched by the weather and was enjoying his walk immensely. He liked to observe people going about their day, to note whether they were hurried or leisurely, modern or old-fashioned, pleasant or grim. He came to a roundabout and an older lady walking a labrapoodle smiles at him, “Gosh lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale makes a noise of ironic agreement, but otherwise makes to continue.

The lady continues talking. “Ah but it’ll make the flowers grow at least, that’s what I always say. It is a shame about that roundabout though.”

Aziraphale was not aware how a roundabout in any context could be considered a shame so, naturally, he smiles and says, “Isn’t it just?”

“Got rid of all the greenery, paved it over and put that great big ugly statue there. What’s it even for anyway?”

Not knowing or caring, Aziraphale makes a vague gesture with his hand, “I really couldn’t say,” then hastily extricates himself from the conversation. It’s too late though, his pleasant mood is broken, and he suddenly wants to be at his destination already.

Crowley’s Bentley isn’t parked outside when he gets there, which means he’s off doing some temptation or another (he’d probably told Aziraphale, but it was rather hard to keep track of them. He considers it a hazard of immortality. After a certain number of weeks, whether something is happening this week or the last seems almost incidental). No matter, he lets himself in and potters over to the kitchen to find something to eat. It would be incorrect to say the fridge was empty, but it did contain such an improbable combination of ingredients that even Aziraphale could not fathom to assemble them into something edible, so he settles for summoning cocoa.

He considers the plants. They’re quite lush, the envy of gardeners everywhere, the pride and joy of Crowley himself. He walks over to examine them, touches the leaves. It would be terribly cold hearted to simply get rid of the underperformers. Aziraphale knows that Crowley is not cold hearted – except in the literal sense. Maybe they’re around here somewhere, in another room? He’s not seen much of the flat, it’s relatively new and anyway, they always meet in the bookshop. This is an unspoken agreement between them. Crowley’s flat makes Aziraphale uncomfortable, which is bizarre because it belongs to Crowley, so why would it? Yet the whole place makes him feel like something is slightly wrong, as if someone broke into his house and moved everything an inch to the left. Despite his inability to explain this even to himself the flat was never mentioned in their joint plans.

After a minute he’s investigated every room, and there is no second room of slightly lesser plants. It’s all well though, when Crowley gets back he’ll ask him, and at the very least he’ll have his answer. Even if it’s not one he particularly likes.

Speak of the devil – demon – he hears a blast of familiar music followed by the equally familiar slamming of a car door. Aziraphale goes to prepare him a drink, only to remember his own cocoa, now positively frigid. He sighs despondently over the cup. It’s never the same when you miracle it warm.

Crowley comes up behind him, placing his hands on the counter either side of the other being. He leans into Aziraphale’s shoulder, “I’ll get that for you, Angel.” And the cocoa is hot once more.

Aziraphale leans back into him, “Bad day?”

“Oh, positively awful,” Crowley grins. He kisses the shell of the angel’s ear, “Any particular reason you dropped by?”

Which brings Aziraphale to the task at hand, he tries to tilt his head back far enough to see Crowley’s face, but ultimately gives up to turn to face him, still nested within the circle of his arms. “I have a very important question to ask you.”

Crowley straightens up, “I had nothing to do with that body they found in the lake.”

“What? Oh no, I already know that, not really your style my dear. No, you see, what I really want to know is-” he shoots a concerned look up at Crowley’s serpentine eyes, then asks, all in a rush, “What do you do with your underperforming plants?”

“I bin them,” he says, after a significant pause.

Aziraphale arches a single eyebrow.

“Well, I erm, ah,” Crowley stammers, dropping his arms to retrieve a pair of sunglasses from his inside pocket. He hides his eyes and then continues, much more smoothly, “You can look at me all you like, it’s the honest truth!”

Aziraphale raises his second eyebrow.

Crowley runs a hand through his hair, looks behind him to check the plants can’t hear, “I replant them,” he confesses. “But in illegal places! It’s against the rules and everything!”

A grin spreads across Aziraphale’s face and he hides it by pressing a kiss to the demon’s cheek, “You’re positively evil. The stuff of nightmares. Truly terrifying.”

He notices a few weeks later that greenery has once more over taken the roundabout he passes on the way to Crowley’s flat.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my friend's assumption about what happens to Crowley's plants. I love the idea of planting things in otherwise unused public spaces, and it's by far my favourite head cannon about the plants he supposedly destroys


End file.
